


Do You Hear What I Hear?

by MaskoftheRay



Series: Merry Angstmas 🎄 [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bruce Wayne Needs Help, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Bruce is not okay in this, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt Bruce Wayne, Mental Health Issues, Song fic- kind of, Sort-Of Canon Compliant, TW: cursing, Tim Drake is Robin (well he's GOING to be), Tim Drake is an Angel, tw: discussion of pedophilia, tw: discussions of abuse, tw: mention of suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21824224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: First, Bruce Wayne took in Dick Grayson. But now his son is fully-grown and has flown awaybecause Bruce alienated him. So he’s alone again... Until he catches a street kid in the middle of stealing the Batmobile’s tires. The kid’s name is Jason. And then the kid, hisson,dies. Bruce spirals.Timothy Drake thinks he can do something about that.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent & Bruce Wayne (mentioned), Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Series: Merry Angstmas 🎄 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571173
Comments: 8
Kudos: 110





	1. Jason Todd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce, or rather _Batman_ , finds a young street urchin stealing the tires from the Batmobile. Bruce, of course, wants to help him. By ‘help him,’ he means **adopt** him. Alfred, Jason, and even Bruce _himself_ , are all very surprised by this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “A child, a child  
> Shivers in the cold  
> Let us bring him silver and gold  
> Let us bring him silver and gold”

Dick was the _easy_ one.

That would later blow Bruce’s mind, that **Dick Grayson** turned out to be the easy child to raise— Alfred huffed quietly at _that_ confession, and said, “Well, I should bloody well _hope_ that you’d be _surprised_ , Master Bruce. What with you taking him in so young.” Even nine years later, the old British butler still hadn’t quite forgiven him— Alfred _loved_ , _adored_ , and _cherished_ Dick Grayson, but his arrival had been a shock all the same— for how Bruce had brought _a literal child_ home from the circus, when he himself was still nearly a child at twenty-six. A man-child who knew **nothing** about literal children.

What _also_ surprised Bruce, years later, was that Dick was not the only child he’d ended up bringing home.

Jason Todd was a whole other thing. Wild, crass, brilliant, rude, overzealous, passionate, with a too-big heart. When Bruce returned to find three tires from his car just… _fucking **gone**_ , and a little slip of a boy currently working the bolts on the fourth, Batman broke his one rule— always sneak quietly when in potentially-dangerous situations— he laughed.

“Aw, shit,” the kid hissed, his East End accent muddling his words. As did the wrench between his teeth. He spat it out, and half-stood, tensed, and ready for a fight. Not that he would _win_ , of course not— Bruce had at least a hundred pounds on the boy, armor, and years of fighting experience. However, for just one second, Bruce thought: _what if_. The boy had certainly surprised him _by stripping the goddamn booby-trapped car_.

Bruce blinked, realizing that he’d been standing in (creepy) silence for the past few minutes. And that the kid had thrown the wrench at him. Bruce bent over and picked it up. “Although I am impressed, I do need the tires back, kid,” he said, surprising himself.

“Fuck you!” the kid yelled, and Bruce saw his plan to _bolt_ broadcasted clearly in his eyes.

“Wait.” The kid hesitated. But he wasn’t twitching anymore. Bruce took a deep breath in, and lost his fucking mind (as if he’d _had_ one to begin with). “It’s not safe on the streets. Come with me, and I can get you some food, and a warm place to—”

“No SHIT, Sherlock. Of course it ain’t _safe_. This is Gotham,” the kid interrupted. He squinted up at Batman, tense again. “‘Sides, I know what big men like _you_ want with me. Uh un. Ain’t gonna happen, Batman.” Bruce blinked. His thoughts actually ground to a halt, for just a second. _He thought. The kid really **believed** that Batman— that he would **ever**_ — Bruce growled.

“I’m not going to _harm_ you, kid. And this isn’t… isn’t a—”

“A proposition?” the kid asked bluntly. Bruce’s stomach churned. _Christ_. Clearly he had some more shit to deal with in this fucking dumpster fire of a city.

“No,” he replied stiffly. “And it wasn’t exactly _optional_ , either. I can’t just leave you out here by yourself, kid. So either you’re coming with me or I can drop you off at social services. Or the clinic. Pick one.” The kid stiffened again, but took a step closer, gaze warily focused on Batman. Bruce held very, very still.

“Why?” he asked, after a long moment of silence.

 _‘Why?’_ Bruce repeated mentally, confused. “Why _what_?” he asked.

“Why now. Why _me_? Why not some other kid— ‘cause, you know, it ain’t like I’m th’ only one.” _Oh_. Bruce couldn’t help the frown that crossed his face, picturing other little, starving, traumatized faces. _Oh, how he’d failed_.

“Because you’re here,” he replied finally.

The kid gave him a long, appraising look, and nodded. “Fine. But just so you know, I can scream real loud if I wanna.”

Bruce grit his teeth, feeling vaguely nauseous again. “Understood.”

When they started heading toward the city limits of Gotham proper, the kid— whose _name_ he had just _forgotten to ask_ — pressed his nose to the window. “Hey! Where you taking me?” he demanded, sounding nervous. _Oh, right_. _Should probably explain that_.

“I told you: you’re with me.”

“WHAT! HEY, _ASSHOLE_ —”

“What’s your name, kid?”

“… ‘s Jason. Jason Peter Todd. And _fuck you_.” The kid— Jason— fell silent again, until they reached the cave. When they pulled to a stop, and Bruce unlocked the doors, the kid whistled. He slammed the door and spun around. “Damn. You really do live in a cave. Judy, Tommy, and the others are _never_ gonna believe me.”

Bruce flinched, at the casual mention of other homeless children, and had to repress the desire to snap, ‘You are _never_ going to live on the streets again.’ He blinked. _Oh, fuck. Alfred was going to be so **angry** with him_. Casually, he started removing bits of the suit. Jason, who was still whirling around, taking in his surroundings, didn’t notice. Until he turned around, and asked, “So, then, what’s the plan?”

Bruce had just finished removing the cowl. He froze. The boy froze too. His eyes went wide, and his mouth dropped open. “Are you _shitting me_? Bruce freakin’ Wayne? No goddamn way. NO.”

Bruce flashed a smile, and said, in his most pissed-off-you-done-fucked-up-buddy Batvoice: “Believe it.”

Jason blinked again, and then his eyes went cold. His mouth pressed into a thin line, he squared his shoulders, and clenched his fists. “So, genius, what’s to stop me from spillin’ the beans?”

Bruce hesitated. This had been the tricky bit with Dick too, asking, ‘Stay with me?’ “Nothing, I suppose. You could even blackmail me quite successfully for the next _decade_ , if you wanted. I am quite rich. However, I do hope that we can agree on another course of action.”

Jason frowned, at that. “Such as?”

Bruce hesitated. He inhaled sharply, and said, “Such as… you coming to live with me.”

Jason’s mouth dropped open again, and he took a step back. “ _Stay_ with you. What? Have you gone outta your mind? Did Joker hit you too hard or somethin’?”

And that was when Alfred came down the stairs, already saying, “Master Bruce, it is quite late, and I fully expect you to remember that you have— oh. Goodness me. Who’s this?”

“This is Jason. Jason Todd. He’ll be staying with us for a while,” Bruce said, ignoring the incredulous looks both of the cave’s other occupants gave him.


	2. Timothy Drake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman is grieving the loss of his Robin. Bruce is spiraling, and out of control. One day, Tim comes to ~~blackmail~~ save him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king  
> Do you know what I know  
> In your palace wall mighty king  
> Do you know what I know”

Bruce wished he’d just fucking _died_ too, as he woke from the nightmare of smoke in his lungs, ash in his mouth, and a dead boy cradled against his chest, his still-bleeding body coating the Batsuit in a slick, rich red. He shuddered, sniffed, and ignored the wetness of his face. He rolled over, sat briefly at the edge of the bed to let the idea of _getting up_ be processed by his hung-over body, then stumbled to his feet. _He didn’t have far to walk_ , he told himself. The scotch— the last bottle that the late Thomas Wayne had ever bought— was waiting on his dresser.

He slammed one beat-up fist down on the piece of furniture, uncapped the crystal decanter, and drank, without even getting a glass. In his hung-over-getting-drunk-again haze, Bruce imagined Alfred saying, ‘Ah. _Day drinking_ now, are we, Master Wayne? How **charming**.’ He snorted, and took another sip. Alfred-in-his-head was always so _funny_. Too bad the real one had left two weeks ago, claiming he needed a break. He said he’d be back, but Bruce wasn’t so sure.

Not when… not when it was only _Bruce_ here to keep him company now.

Not when the first time he’d seen ~~his eldest~~ Dick in nearly _two years_ had been at the funeral for his _other_ son.

Not when Jason Todd-Wayne was **dead** , and it was all Bruce’s fault, and he—

The doorbell rang. Bruce, by this point half-sprawled against the front of his dresser, lifted his head and frowned. Then he remembered _why_ he was having this most recent existential crisis: Alfred had _left_. Oh. That probably meant he should go get the door, then. _Fuck_. Hopefully it wasn’t important.

Bruce grimaced, chugged another decent mouthful of scotch, and glanced down at himself. He decided that yesterday’s— or was it from _two_ days ago?— t-shirt and boxers wasn’t acceptable attire. Even for a grieving, well-on-his-way-to-plastered Bruce Wayne. He threw on a robe, and ran a hand half-heartedly through his hair, and reminded himself not to breathe too hard on whomever his unfortunate visitor was. Maybe it was Clark again.

But then, the last time Clark had been here, Bruce had chewed him out pretty fucking good. And he suspected that even Superman didn’t have the strength to face Batman’s vitriol again. Maybe ever. His vision went blurry, and Bruce ended up half-punching himself in the face as he attempted to bat away the tears. _Christ. Why the fuck was he only now becoming a sentimental drunk?_

Bruce stumbled across the living room, ripped open the door, and blinked. He squinted down at the small, pale _child_ in front of him, and almost, almost, _almost_ asked, ‘Jason?’ But he didn’t. Because this was not Jason. Would **never** be Jason, because he was— he was— he was— “Mr. Wayne?”

“What?” Bruce snapped. It may have come out more like: ‘Whuzzat?’ however. The boy, who Bruce suspected might be that Drake kid, frowned. He looked _worried_. Bruce’s frown deepened.

“If now’s not a good time, then I can—”

“No. It’s _not_ a good time, but it won’t ever be again. So say what you fucking came here to say, and leave.” Bruce was _appalled_ that he had **cursed** at a child. Bruce’s inner Alfred was appalled, so was Dick, so was _Jason_. Bruce didn’t apologize. The kid— definitely Timothy Drake— flinched, but he didn’t leave. He _also_ didn’t apologize for disturbing Bruce. Instead, he sighed, and his mouth did a good impression of one of Batman’s own unimpressed grimaces. It was then that Bruce noticed the oversized manilla envelope tucked under the kid’s arm.

“Are you going to let me in? I… I think you’ll want to hear this in _private_ , Sir.”

Bruce sighed, and ran a hand over his face— _Christ, he needed to shave_ — and stepped back. He swept a hand mockingly toward the living room, and said, “After you.” Timothy stepped through the door, and Bruce closed it with a bang that had _mostly_ not been intentional. If he stumbled as he led Timothy into the living room, the boy did not comment.

When they were both seated, Bruce had been about to offer his guest something (that bit of Alfred’s rearing was ingrained in him at this point), but he realized: _he had nothing to give. Unless he wanted to get the very underage boy **drunk** , which he did not_. So nothing it was. 

“Why’re you here?” he growled, realizing that they’d both been silent, and looking past each other. The youngest Drake sighed, and gently set the large manilla envelope on the glass coffee table between them. Bruce blinked at it. _It felt like this was something he should be concerned about_. 

“What’s this?” Bruce grunted.

Timothy Drake took in a deep breath. Bruce narrowed his eyes. “I know Batman’s identity,” the boy said. He looked up, and his piercing blue gaze met Bruce’s own bloodshot one. “I know you’re Batman, Mr. Wayne. And I _also_ know that you **need** a Robin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both chapter-heading quotes come from the song, “Do You Hear What I Hear,” written by Noel Regney and Gloria Shayne, sung by Carrie Underwood.


End file.
